


with a taste of the poison (paradise)

by Verity (PenelopeGrace)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Maids, And so many tags that I'm not even going to bother tagging them all, Cock Slut Katsuki Yuuri, Fic of kinks, M/M, Maids, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Porn Logic, Sex Toys, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:13:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24559714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopeGrace/pseuds/Verity
Summary: A frilly apron. Nylon stockings. Black garter belt. Black high heels. Skirt with white lace. Tight black corset with white laces. A little cap. And to top it all off, a single black ribbon tied around the neck, teasing the slightest hint of the omega's scent gland.Grad student Yuuri Katsuki, a computer science major working for his Master's, has studied enough line graphs to know the amount of tips he receives from Victor Nikiforov is negatively correlated to the length of his skirt in inches. It's a good arrangement for six months. He shortens his skirt, and he rakes in more cash.He should have known that this arrangement is not meant to last.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 57
Kudos: 292





	1. 34 to 9 inches

He likes working at the grand house sitting at the end of a cul-de-sac. 58371 Aspen Avenue. It's not too messy nor too clean. Clean houses only remind Yuuri of his maid outfit, of the real reason why they hired him. That being said, he doesn't hate his job as an adult cleaner. It's paid better than the rates of a "normal" housekeeper. 

For two months, he lets himself into the house at 58371 Aspen Avenue. He sees not a single soul throughout this entire period, which is surprising. Most of the time, the clients like to ogle his outfit. He collects his tips from the poodle's collar. Always fifty dollars. The alpha, who is the only one who lives in this house, is devious enough to leave his tips with his dog. Some maids might take the money and run without lifting even a feather duster, but not Yuuri. No, he can't resist those sweet, trusting eyes of the poodle, waiting for all the tasks to be done before tugging the envelope from Makkachin's collar. 

The day after the two months mark, Yuuri opens the door to find someone casually sitting at the couch. The alpha, Yuuri knows. He knows the scent very well after laundering the man's bedsheets. 

"Oh, hello," the alpha says, not looking up from his laptop. "Sorry that I'm here." 

Yuuri's eyes adjust to the indoor lighting. Why is he _apologizing_ for being in his own home? Yuuri should be apologizing for accidentally kicking over the owl statue in front of the house. Thankfully, the statue was not harmed at all. 

His eyes peer at the alpha's back. He is broad in the shoulders, short silver hair tousled neatly. He wears some sort of a tracksuit, as if he decided to start working after exercising briefly. 

The alpha continues speaking, typing a long email. "I'm Victor Nikiforov. You may call me Mr. Nikiforov. I appreciate your work. Excellent quality. I hope you don't mind if I ask you to do something for me." 

"Yes?" Yuuri chokes out. Is a sex thing?

"The sprinklers are broken in the backyard. I haven't gotten anyone to fix it yet, but I need the plants and the garden to be watered for the next two weeks. Hope you don't mind." 

"Not at all." And then Yuuri gets to work, starting with the nearest bathroom. The alpha doesn't use this one, but Yuuri is tasked to keep it clean and free of dust. 

The adult housekeeping agency Yuuri works at pays decently well. Phichit, his roommate, was the one who roped him into this job. The tips are good, despite the wandering eyes of his clients. 

But this one, the one he's been calling 58371 Aspen Avenue for two months, is different. No wandering eyes, a waste of extra pay without ever seeing Yuuri. Plus, a nice, dominating scent that sometimes sends his head into a hazy state of mind. 

But now it's changing.

Maybe Mr. Nikiforov will be around more often, Yuuri thinks as he turns on the water. He yelps at the sudden spray of water from a broken seam in the hose. Water splashes all around, leaving a thick puddle of mud. Yuuri's long skirt happily soaks up the liquid. His shoes are ruined. 

So he huffs, continuing with the watering. It's not like he can get anymore wet and muddy. By the time he's done with the new task, he walks around the house and out through the side gate. He's not an idiot to walk through the house and track mud all over the carpets he just vacuumed. He fishes out his spare skirt and shoes from the back of the trunk, changing his clothes in the backseat. He would rather not be ogled more than necessary. 

By the time he comes back in, the alpha is no longer in the living room. Yuuri is relieved. Now he can start mopping the wood floors without feeling like a creep. And Yuuri doesn't have time to question this thought when _he's_ the one who is being sexually exploited. 

He's putting on the finishing touch and the last of his tasks when Victor strolls into the kitchen with an empty glass. 

"New skirt?" 

Yuuri nearly jumps out of his own skin. "Uh, hai!" He blushes, stammering out more words. "I mean, yes." 

"Shorter," the alpha murmurs, so quietly. 

Not quietly enough for the omega to not hear. It's true, though. The skirt falls two inches above his ankles, short enough for Victor to see his high heels. He's not sure when Victor managed to catch a glimpse of him, but it could have been while he was working. He shuts the dishwasher, starting it up. Then he turns. 

Mr. Nikiforov is even taller than Yuuri expected, even without wearing any shoes. His azure eyes seem to see right through Yuuri, as if the omega is not wearing anything at all. Dressed in a black suit that is probably worth more than his student loans, the alpha holds out an envelope. "Your tip." His eyes are locked upon Yuuri, zeroing in. 

The omega slowly takes it, the tension rising between them. Is this a trick? Is this where he acts perverted like some of his other clients, trying to touch what they're not supposed to touch? 

But no, there is none of that. Mr. Nikiforov's eyes run over Yuuri, and then he walks away, leaving the omega exhaling deeply in the kitchen.

Yuuri's hands are shaking, sweaty as he drives home. He stops in front of the apartment he rents, hands finally opening the envelope. His eyes widen at the crisp hundred dollar bill.

* * *

The next time he arrives, he menially goes through his tasks. Vacuuming, sweeping, dusting. He saves the garden for the last. He saw that Mr. Nikiforov did not bother changing the hose to a new one. He will get wet. For certain. He does not jump at the sudden spray of water splattering all over his skirt once again.

He sighs. At least, he has a backup skirt once again. 

The backup skirt reaches right below his knees. He feels vaguely like a naughty schoolgirl, but it's not like he should be feeling this way. He opens the front door, a fresh pair of heels clicking their way in. 

He rearranges a few vases of fresh flowers he collected from the garden. He returns to the kitchen to start the dishwasher. Bending over, he squints and picks the options. 

The sound of coughing makes him hit the wrong selection. 

He stands up, head snapping to see Mr. Nikiforov finally downstairs after spending hours undisturbed in his office. Yuuri knows better than to go in there for any reason, not even to clean. It's among the first instructions he received from the client questionnaire. 

"Mr. Nikiforov," he says, tilting his head. "Are you alright?" 

"I, ah." The alpha turns, his face red. He pivots suddenly, a mad dash towards the stairs. 

Yuuri shrugs to himself. Mr. Nikiforov seems fine, although also sounding a bit stressed. He returns to the many buttons of the fancy dishwasher. 

After picking up his basket of cleaning supplies and stowing away all of Mr. Nikiforov's, he makes his leave. 

"Wait!" Mr. Nikiforov jogs, stopping in front of Yuuri. The slight scent of wintergreen and frost brush over to the omega's nose. "Sorry. Your tip." He holds out a white envelope. 

Yuuri takes it. "Thank you." 

Twenty minutes after driving nonstop, he finally opens the envelope. His eyes linger on the hundred dollar bill and the fifty tucked besides it. 

It becomes a thing. 

Yuuri's maid outfit is the exact standard for his housekeeping agency. A frilly apron. Nylon stockings. Black garter belt. Black high heels. Skirt with white lace. Tight black corset with white laces. A little cap. And to top it all off, a single black ribbon tied around the neck, teasing the slightest hint of the omega's scent gland.

His skirt was originally 34 inches long, reaching the floor. It took a three inch cut the day he met Victor Nikiforov. It took another seven inch cut the next week. A quick detour to the shopping mall allows him a few more skirts of various lengths. Soon, it'll be a matter of hemming and further experimenting. 

Yuuri is a computer science major. He did not forget Sir Francis Bacon's teachings regarding the scientific method. He has an inkling of a hypothesis and mad skills at Excel to make any self-respecting accountant cry in jealousy. So he writes down his observations. 

What is that saying again? 

Once is happenstance. Twice is a coincidence. Thrice is cold, hard evidence that Mr. Nikiforov is paying close attention to the length of his skirt. 

22 inches garners 200 dollars in cash. Not bad for a five hour workday at 58371 Aspen Avenue, in which Yuuri is making 22 dollars per hour after tax. The skirt ends right above Yuuri's knee, displaying part of Yuuri's legs and the attractive black heels he wears. 

The following week has 20 inches. He accidentally rips his nylon stocking at his right shin while cleaning out a lamp. He gets 270 dollars. And Mr. Nikiforov is now always home whenever Yuuri works. Every week without fail. 

A part of Yuuri whispers that it's a bad idea to play these sort of games with a client. 

He doesn't care. 

At 20 inches, Yuuri does a lot of unnecessary bending. He bends over while cleaning the area around Mr. Nikiforov's bed, the sheets smelling of dryer sheets and nothing else. His fingers latch onto a skimp of black fabric. A thong. A worn thong. His cheeks blush at the object. 

Does this belong to a girlfriend of Mr. Nikiforov? Is there someone in the picture? 

But no.

The thong contains a whiff of Mr. Nikiforov's scent, the very essence of the alpha. Smelling of all the things Yuuri wanted but never had, the thong is tightly clutched in the omega's hand. Yuuri doesn't even move, inhaling the scent. Enthralled, frozen in his tracks. 

It takes another minute for him to snap out of this haze. He wants to see this in his nest, he wants to bury his face as a fat knot plows his cunt. Preferably Mr. Nikiforov's, but he doesn't have it. So he'll settle for a toy instead. 

What should he do? If this was a sock, Yuuri would put it in the hamper for dirty clothes. Laundry for clothes is not one of Yuuri's tasks; Mr. Nikiforov washes his own apparels and takes his delicates to the dry cleaners. 

A small part of him wants to hide it in his apron and take it home. The good, sensible part of his brain forces him to drop it into the hamper without looking back. 

He collects 320 from Mr. Nikiforov. 

19 inches has the skirt exposing the hint of Yuuri's creamy thighs. 430 dollars in tips has Yuuri salivating at the thought of knocking a few months off at loan repayments. If he didn’t receive all these tips, his student loan would have been paid off in July 2027. With this month’s tips of 1,220 dollars plus 142 from other clients, he can be a free man in less than eight years if the trend keeps up. 

127,264 dollars in total. Some of it was earned from his undergraduate years, the rest from graduate school. He's shelling out over a thousand dollars per month. But with Victor's tips, if it stays consistent, he can put more in. He can get it paid off sooner without the interest strangling him for ten years. 

The hem doesn’t come out right when Yuuri tries to shorten a new skirt to 17 inches, so right before his usual appointment with Mr. Nikiforov, he slips on the 19 inch black skirt and forgoes the nylon stocking and the garter belt. He has to give something new to Mr. Nikiforov to see. He lathers vanilla-scented lotion over his skin, thankful he had the foresight to shave his legs last night. 

Mr. Nikiforov no longer works in his study. Typing away quickly at his laptop at the kitchen island, he occasionally pauses in the click clack of his keys whenever Yuuri bends over to reach into the subtle hiding places for cellar spiders. Despite not actually changing the length of his skirt, he gets a thicker envelope with 510 in cash while pretending not to notice the careful placement of Mr. Nikiforov’s jacket over his lap and the growing intensity in his pheromones. 

He ends up canceling next week’s cleaning due to his heat. The agency later texts him for confirmation of his availability due to the client’s preferences in maids, so they can squeeze two cleaning sessions in a week. They shift Mr. Cao’s appointment to another maid. 

Heat-addled, Yuuri doesn’t mind. His lips curve into a smile. 

Mr. Nikiforov only wants _him._

The 17 inch skirt leaves Yuuri frowning in the mirror. Fairly soon, he will be running out of inches to cut. He will have to do something else. Some new ideas he hasn’t considered yet. Like removing something permanently. Perhaps he can switch to a short sleeve and expose his arms? He taps his chin, turning around to touch his toes. 

In the mirror, the skirt rises high enough to expose the creamy flesh of his thighs. 

It brings 690 dollars when Yuuri bends over to retrieve Makkachin’s chew toy from underneath the sofa while vacuuming, in perfect view of the alpha. 

That same week, he retains the same skirt but shortens the white apron. He also loses the black long sleeve in favor of a black short-sleeved v-neck. It cuts deep enough to reveal much of Yuuri’s chest and the teasing white laces of the corset underneath. 

750

Yuuri sways his hips as he moves, feather dusting the bookshelves in the guest room. His 15 inch skirt cuts mid-thigh. Every time he leans forward, he knows Mr. Nikiforov can see the slightest hint of his white panties. 

920

This entire month brought in more tips than Yuuri has seen in all the time he worked at the adult housekeeping agency. 

Yuuri records it all in his spreadsheet, counting up each dollar. He forgoes his usual habit of buying dildos and lubricants in favor of new panties. Sexier panties, ones Mr. Nikiforov has never seen before on Yuuri. And in a drunken moment, the omega buys two crotchless panties. One is light pink, the other red. The package sits in the back of Yuuri’s closet, hidden in view. He despairs over his impulsive purchase, but he decides not to return it. 

He might need it. 

It’s an investment. An investment made by drunk Yuuri. 

Well, it’s probably a long-term investment that makes more sense. Unlike the single nipple piercing he got five months ago, way before he even met Mr. Nikiforov. 

* * *

The skirt stays at 15 inches. What changes is Yuuri’s heels. 1.5 inch heels is Yuuri’s standard. For 58371 Aspen Avenue, the new standard is 2 inches. It accents Yuuri’s calves and forces his posture to shift. He leans forward a little more, his ass sticking out enticingly at Victor. It’s a little harder to work with these heels, but so worth it when Yuuri opens up the envelope to find 1120 dollars in cash. 

He’s never been so thankful for his background as a dancer. 

3 inches makes Mr. Nikiforov live practically full-time in his own kitchen, his eyes occasionally flicking to run his searing gaze over Yuuri’s skin. Yuuri pretends to drop his cleaning wipe in front of the patio doors. Cool air gently brushes against Yuuri’s ass cheeks. The omega stands back up, standing on his tiptoes to reach the invisible spots. 

1490

4 inches enforces Yuuri’s posture. His butt sticks out more, and his chest lifts. 

1710

A brief part of Yuuri wonders about Mr. Nikiforov’s occupation. But the question soon slips his mind when he shortens his skirt by another inch and does nothing else but work. He flashes his frilly pink panties at the alpha. 

2000

And that’s another month of tips. He should do this full-time. It might be more than he will earn as an IT guy. Or maybe even. . . Ever in his life. 

After the arrival of the new year, he switches out his corset for a tinier one. Unlike the previous, it underlines his breast and sits snugly against his waist. He has to abandon his v-neck, because it clashes with this black lacy corset, a specific type of corset called— 

“Underbust corset,” Yuuri answers, blushing at Mr. Nikiforov. It’s the first time at all that the alpha speaks for months other than to give the omega his tips. He holds the feather duster and turns to the side. 

“You’re not wearing a shirt,” voices Mr. Nikiforov, his tongue licking the dryness of his lips. “I. . .” He sits back down, the tips of his nose set aflamed with a shade of pink. 

It’s lovely. 

“No, just a sports bra,” answers Yuuri. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” replies the alpha, recovering quickly. He returns to his pile of reports, maintaining a veil of normalcy. Of functionality. 

But Yuuri can feel the heat of his gaze on his back, the wanted eyes staring at the winking window of skin showing right underneath the black sports bra and right above the ruffles of the underbust corset. 

3250

The next week is simple. Yuuri shows up at Mr. Nikiforov’s front door, wearing the exact same outfit except one little change. 

No ribbon. His scent gland, the one on his neck, is now bare to the world. 

Yuuri almost feels ridiculous when he counts the cash. 

4000

He smiles instead, feeling giddy in his stomach. 

He drops a few more inches, the skirt landing at 12 inches now. Every move he makes in Mr. Nikiforov’s house feels as if he’s walking on eggshells or in a minefield. Every breath is taxed, and he just knows he’s standing on the edge of something new. The miniskirt is tight instead of flared like the others, two full inches falling below his buttcheek. 

He hardly looks like a maid, with just an underbust corset, a small apron, a miniskirt, and a black sports bra on. The 4 inch heels clicks and clacks as he walks across wood floors, poised perfectly for the alpha’s view. It’s not the typical maid attire. Although he still maintains his housekeeping tasks and his white maid’s cap. 

5500

10 inches. His butt cheeks wink from the hem, the miniskirt hardly covering anything now. Every time he bends over, Mr. Nikiforov can see the dark blue laces and tiny ribbons of his panties. 

He cleans the chandelier, lowering it down so he can just barely reach it on his 4 inch heels. He struggles with wiping away the fake candlelights, and he smells the alpha’s arousal before he even sees him. 

“Need help?” inquires Mr. Nikiforov. 

“Yes, please,” Yuuri demurely answers, leaning against the dinner table for purchase. “I can’t quite get that crystal down.” Parts of the chandelier are detachable for an easier cleaning job. But sometimes, it’s hard to get the right screws twisting. 

Mr. Nikiforov touches the back of Yuuri’s hand, the heat scorching and nearly sending the omega gasping in shock. His chest presses against Yuuri’s back, his grey silk collared-shirt brushing against the bare skin of Yuuri’s back, so warm that it makes Yuuri’s head spin. Then there’s the hard press of an impressive bulge against Yuuri’s ass, and he forgets everything he’s supposed to be doing— 

Just for a moment. 

“Here,” hoarsely says Mr. Nikiforov, handing the shiny crystals to the omega. Then he pulls away, as if taking all the warmth. 

Before he accepts the envelope for his tip, he says to the alpha, "I want to thank you for all your tips, Mr. Nikiforov." 

The alpha smiles. "You're excellent at your job. I hope the tips help you." 

Yuuri laughs, his cheeks red. "Well, it's been killing my student loans." 

"Oh?" Mr. Nikiforov taps his chin. "Give me the payment method." 

So Yuuri does, standing awkwardly by the front door, waiting for Mr. Nikiforov to come back downstairs. It's five minutes of waiting, but it will be worth it. 

"Here," says Mr. Nikiforov, rushing back with an envelope outstretched. "I hope you have a nice day." 

When he opens the thin envelope in front of his apartment building, he does not find cash. He finds a confirmation of payment for 7000 dollars, issuing to Yuuri's student loans. 

His debt can be paid off in five years, even if Mr. Nikiforov doesn’t tip anymore. 

It's a heady feeling. But not as great as the hot press of Mr. Nikiforov's dick against his ass.

* * *

The month of February proves to be difficult. Yuuri eyes his outfit in the mirror, posing at different angles. There's not much he can change now without being full-on naked. Hmm. 

He wears a smaller sports bra and an apron that cuts lower. Whenever he leans forward, it gapes, showing the slightest hint of a dark red shade, the shade of his areola. When he's on his knees, scrubbing at the floor, he makes sure Mr. Nikiforov sees. 

The next printed receipt is for 8900. 

His heels get an upgrade. 5 inches is enough to make him sweat as he goes through all the tasks. Mr. Nikiforov's eyes do not leave him for the next five hours, his work forgotten and abandoned in front of him. 

It smells like he's leaving a territorial alpha's den when he collects 10100. 

He upgrades his underwear. The crotchless panties, unfortunately, can't be used with the tight miniskirts. While cleaning the kitchen, he bends over, flashing his tiny pink panties. They barely cover his ass cheeks. Barely. 

"Miniskirt." 

Yuuri nearly drops his spray bottle. "Yes." 

"I prefer the flared ones," Mr. Nikiforov growls. 

There's a warm feeling teasing Yuuri's stomach. His cock pulses, as if possessing its own heart. 

11500

He's running out of ideas. He finds the flared skirt at the mall, a mere 9 inches in length. There is no way he can walk without Mr. Nikiforov catching sight of his panties. 

It's clear the alpha knows this as well, following Yuuri from room to room. Watching as he cleans the windows, wipes down the exercise equipment in the makeshift personal training room, dust the large copier machine. 

Yuuri is almost disappointed that Mr. Nikiforov did not lay a finger on him. 

13000

There's only two years left on his student loans. 

Of course. Coronavirus had to ruin everything. 

The adult housekeeping agency is run by a Chinese couple who actually shut their services down before the state government lifts even a finger. In an email sent to all of the employees, they cite personal connections in Guangzhou, who warn of the severity of the virus. "We're taking no chances at all," it says. Then they issue a heartfelt apology and recommend everyone to start applying for unemployment. 

On the last day of working at Mr. Nikiforov, Yuuri decides to cut his apron, so it will be proportional to the skirt length. 

It's not anything sexy, but it looks pleasing to the eye. He'll take that. 

Mr. Nikiforov, at the end of the day, holds an envelope in his hands. There is a slight note of fear as he says, "So the agency will be suspending its services until the pandemic is cleared." 

"Yes," the omega confirms. 

"Will you be available to work for me?" He asks hopefully. "I must ask you that you don't work with any other clients except for me with this ongoing pandemic. I have no desire to be caught." Before Yuuri can answer, he hurriedly adds, "I can cover whatever the other clients pay as well. To compensate. You’ll have to message my accountant, so we can sort the legal details of your employment." 

Yuuri thinks quickly. It's a really good deal. This way, he still can get money rolling in and he doesn't have to go through the frightening ordeal of applying for unemployment, which asks more questions than Yuuri ever thought possible. So he nods, "Yes, I'll be happy to." 

"Then same time." Mr. Nikiforov beams, handing the envelope to the omega. 

"Not next time." Yuuri squeaks out, his face blushing at Mr. Nikiforov's crestfallen expression. "Heat. I will make up, though." 

"You will," Mr. Nikiforov agrees, his eyes hidden by his silver bangs. “I’ll text you the accountant’s phone number.” 

15000

The week off gives him a lot of time to think, especially without any work to be done except for homework from his numerous classes. 

When he returns to Mr. Nikiforov, he pulls off his coat to reveal his maid outfit. He wears not a bra, but instead, a white apron that covers his nipples and the underbust corset. 

He can pinpoint the exact moment Mr. Nikiforov stops working, his azure eyes dilating in lust, the pheromones thickening. His nipples harden as they work, rubbing against the soft material. 

17000

How Mr. Nikiforov is not broke is a question Yuuri dares not to ask. 

And Yuuri Katsuki should have known that this arrangement is not meant to last.

* * *

The beginning of April sees the omega agonizing over the lack of brilliant new ideas. Six months of surprising Victor has dulled to this very moment with a dim light bulb. Even with his student loan freshly paid off with plenty of cash left over, he still feels a phantom fear crawling up his throat. Mr. Nikiforov has been very good with payments, also direct depositing now. 

The skies part and the angels sing when he reads an article about how omega bartenders weaponize their slick to garner more tips. Alphas like the scent, claims the article. They can’t resist it. 

He has on his maid uniform for Mr. Nikiforov as he spreads his legs in front of the mirror. He digs into his drawer, fishing for his favorite dildo. It’s nicely thick and long enough to fill up his hungry hole. Slick drips from his hole, his red panties soaking. 

He’s sighing at the slow, unrelenting press of the dildo when he suddenly hears footsteps. He quickly throws his coat over his outfit, right before Phichit knocks. 

“Yuuri? You haven’t forgotten you’re supposed to drop me off at the interview place.” 

“Yeah, no. Coming right away!” He grabs his bucket of cleaning supplies, wishing he had another second to pull out the dildo. 

But no. He keeps it within him, warming it with the constant squeezing of his cunt. He waves at Phichit as he drops him off, and then he drives west to the outskirts of the city to Mr. Nikiforov. 

He’s late, so he doesn’t waste another moment before dashing up the pavement and the steps to knock on the alpha’s front door. 

The very moment the door opens, Mr. Nikiforov’s eyes widen, his nose quirking up in surprise. A red blush spreads across his cheeks. 

“I’m so sorry,” stammers out Yuuri. “It’s my fault.” 

“Just stay extra afterwards,” the alpha purrs, recovering quickly. He opens the door wider. 

The dildo is affecting him far more than usual. Every step seems daunting as it shifts the toy to a new angle. Yuuri wants to clutch the wall and tug it to find release as he breathes in the heavenly alpha scent surrounding him. His skin is so hot, despite the skimpy clothes he wears. And oh, he wants to fall to the ground at the alpha’s feet and curl up around him and never leave. 

It takes a moment for his mind to gather, his cunt pulsating desperately. 

He’s working on Mr. Nikiforov’s bedsheets, gathering them for laundry when he feels hot hands seizing his hips. Mr. Nikiforov’s nose presses against Yuuri’s scent gland, his hot breath dancing over Yuuri’s throat. 

“You smell so wanton," Mr. Nikiforov purrs, his voice pitched low that Yuuri's pheromones respond in kind. "Like you want to be filled." 

Oh, if only Mr. Nikiforov knew. 

"Tell me to stop if you don't want this." 

Yuuri arches his neck, pushing his ass eagerly into the front of Mr. Nikiforov's pants. "Yes," he whispers as hands crawl up his side, leaving a scorching trail that Yuuri can't help but purr at in glee. 

Mr. Nikiforov's hands run up the corset and slip underneath the apron. His fingers curve around the small curves of his breast. "You've been taunting me, teasing me for months. A very bad omega." 

The omega gasps, grinding even harder into the alpha. He squeezes around the dildo, his hands dropping the bedsheets. He can't possibly concentrate on work now. At the dangerous approach of the alpha's right hand towards his nipple, he stammers out, "Don't touch! Piercing! Still healing!" 

Thankfully, Mr. Nikiforov stops, for a moment. Then he follows the lines of the apron's straps and tugs it down Yuuri's shoulder. 

The apron bunches up around the omega's waist. 

He's bare, the underbust corset offering up his small breasts as a sacrifice to Mr. Nikiforov's relentless eyes. He shivers at the single finger following the lines of his areola, so close to the sensitive piercing. 

"Still healing?" His words are whispered directly into Yuuri's ear. 

"Yes," Yuuri breathes out helplessly, clenching so hard around the dildo. "I got three more months or so to go." 

"Oh, Yuuri," murmurs Mr. Nikiforov, the syllables of Yuuri's name sending slick dripping down the omega's thighs. "It's so pretty. Like a jewel. I won't touch." 

The omega nods in relief. 

"But I want to look." Then his fingers dance up and flicks the sensitive nub, the nipple without a piercing. 

Yuuri squirms, his ass pushing harder into Mr. Nikiforov's arousal. He nearly misses the alpha's next words, so wet with desire. 

"I want to see you get the other one." 

Fuck, he wants to. He wants to get the other side pierced, watch Mr. Nikiforov's growing arousal, needs to have Mr. Nikiforov playing with the piercings. He's whining, shamelessly moaning at the hard, biting way the alpha kisses around his scent gland. 

A hand pulls up his skirt. 

"Fuck," snarls the alpha, his knuckles brushing against the black panties. "I smell your slick. You're so wet." The panties are pushed aside in favor of Yuuri's cock, his fingers curling around the girth. "You love this, don't you?" 

Yuuri nods, unable to even speak. 

“You smell like a slut, like you will let anyone fuck you. Wonder you are as loose as one.” Then Mr. Nikiforov’s hands move, probing Yuuri’s entrance, a finger tapping at the hard base of the silicon dildo. The alpha’s grip tightens around the omega, the other hand pinching his nipple. “Wow,” he laughs, almost in disbelief. “You really can’t help yourself. You need to be filled.” 

“Ah,” the omega cries, whining. The little taps at the exposed end of the dildo is not enough to do anything, merely tease. He almost weeps when Mr. Nikiforov grips it and begins to slowly thrust it in and out. His other hand squeezes Yuuri's nipple and then tears off the omega's skirt, sending it down Yuuri's ankles. 

It takes an embarrassing minute for Yuuri to come, his torso bowing as his mouth opens in a silent scream. His legs collapse, sending him sprawling over the bed. The dildo, only halfway in, juts out of his leaking hole, conspicuous. Slick drips all over Mr. Nikiforov's cool sheets. 

Yuuri wants to bury himself here, the soft sheets smelling like heaven. He whines, his back arching at the dildo being pulled out of him. Slick drips even faster, leaving a clear trail. 

He turns his head, catching the sight of Mr. Nikiforov dropping the messy dildo on his nightstand. 

The alpha orders, "Go back to work." 

Yuuri whimpers, pushing himself up. He reaches for the skirt, about to fix himself when— 

"Skirt off," commands Mr. Nikiforov, settling down in his armchair. He has a perfect view, all the better to see Yuuri. "We both know what you are. No need to have a skirt to hide the slick dripping down your thighs. And leave your panties as they are." 

The panties are pushed to the side, not covering his cock or his cunt at all. No modesty. 

He kicks the skirt off his ankles, stepping out of the fabric with his heels. He doesn't dare fix his apron, allowing the alpha to see every curve of his breasts accented by the underbust corset, the single nipple piercing winking in the light. He begins his task, returning to the bedsheets. Laundry, right? His bare skin has never felt so warm before. 

"Stop. Skip the laundry for this week." A pause as the alpha leans forward in his seat. "I like the mess you left behind." 

Yuuri blushes at the mess of slick wetting the expensive sheets. He does not voice how much he likes seeing them there. So he turns away, heading towards the vacuum machine to start cleaning the carpets. 

"Hold it." 

He does. 

"Bend over. Present your cunt." 

Yuuri's hole quivers, clenching desperately around nothing as he bends over. His hands reach behind him, pulling apart his cheeks and the panties to give the alpha an unobstructed view. 

"What a gorgeous cunt," the alpha purrs. Darkly with promise, he adds, "It deserves to be ruined with cock." 


	2. A Broken Paper Tray

Through text, Mr. Nikiforov orders him to wear the underbust corset, the heels, the cap, the skirt, and nothing else. He peels off his coat, skin heating under the alpha's inspection. The coat is placed in the coat closet, and he's about to start cleaning when he suddenly pauses at the alpha's commanding voice. 

"Present yourself." 

Obeying, he turns around and bends over, spreading his cheeks to offer the alpha his sopping, wet hole. Cold air brushes against his folds, teasing. 

The alpha murmurs, "Wet already? You haven't even been ruined yet." 

The omega whimpers. Ruined. Last week's promise hung over Yuuri's head all week. His hole desperately needs to be filled, ruined for anyone else. But the alpha didn't even fill him, merely watching as Yuuri left in a hurry as he picked up his clothes and toy. 

"I'm surprised you had enough self-control not to plug your hole up." Then the alpha strolls over, flipping the skirt down. "You may clean my office today." Then the alpha whistles, moving to his perch at the kitchen island. 

Yuuri slowly straightens, blushing red. He grabs his bucket of cleaning supplies and starts with the bathroom. 

He can't help but notice Mr. Nikiforov, always following him from a distance and watching him like a hawk as he cleans. He wonders at the thoughts on the alpha's mind, wondering what he's thinking every time Yuuri bends over to scrub at a spot or to pick up a random dog toy hiding in the corners. His hole aches, longing for something to fill him so deeply that he will be satisfied for hours. 

But he keeps moving, working, cleaning, dreaming about getting fucked by Mr. Nikiforov, who would rather be hungrily watching the erect nubs of his exposed breasts, eyes flicking over the single silver piercing. 

He ends upstairs in Mr. Nikiforov's office, shivering at the intense rich scent layered into the room. An alpha's territory, he knows. There is no doubt about it. The floor is wood and will require a mop. Mr. Nikiforov must be cleaning his office in his own time, because there is nary a speck of persistent dust glued to the wood. There is not even a strand of hair on the floor, not even from Makkachin. 

He's disappointed he doesn't get thrown over Mr. Nikiforov's neat desk and fucked into the next week. A line of slick trickles down his inner thighs. Can Mr. Nikiforov see that? Does he notice how Yuuri clenches his thighs together, making a mess? 

After doing some final touch up on Mr. Nikiforov's monitor and gently erasing some faint fingerprints, he carries his cleaning supplies to the room next door. 

A supply room, where Mr. Nikiforov keeps a large multifunction copier, boxes of copy paper, a bookshelf stocked with writing utensils, and a random collection of chew toys still in their packaging stacked upon each other in the corner. Cleaning the packages is the worst part. Most of the cellar spiders like to hide in between the gaps. Occasionally, he might find silverfish and need dried lavender to chase them away. 

Then he works on mopping, and every time he passes by the alpha leaning against the doorway, there is a rush of thrill dancing up his spine. He sets the mop and the bucket of dirty water outside, retrieving his feather duster. He begins with the shelves, dusting the corners as he goes. Not too dirty. Then he moves to the pile of dog toys, bending over as he dusts the packages. He stifles a moan as cool air brushes his folds. 

Mr. Nikiforov audibly inhales. 

Then he's dusting the portraits of landscapes, one of a city in Russia. He moves onto the picture of Paris, the Eiffel Tower glittering with lights in the night. A painted picture of Makkachin in her doggy bed brings a soft smile to his lips. He bets Mr. Nikiforov has commissioned an artist to capture her exact likeness, down to her floppy ears and happy demeanor. 

Then he moves onto the copier. It's large, about the size of a washing machine. It belongs more to an office building than a house, even for one as big as Mr. Nikiforov’s. He begins at the top, dusting. He wipes down the buttons, careful not to press too hard. The copier is on, and he would rather not accidentally print three hundred pages of whatever Mr. Nikiforov last printed. 

He turns to the side of the copier, the feather duster landing on the plastic flaps poking out at the side, the output paper tray. He stiffens when the topmost paper tray collapses, falling to the one below it with a loud clatter. 

"I'm so sorry!" Yuuri squeaks, quickly spinning around to face the alpha standing against the doorway. He's blushing so hard that he is quite certain his ears are permanently red. "That, that has never happened before!" 

Mr. Nikiforov straightens, approaching the omega, like an apex predator circling its next meal. He stands right beside Yuuri, viewing the broken tray and tosses it to the floor with a clatter. Tsking, he offhandedly wonders, "I think we have to check if the copier can be used without this tray." 

Yuuri can't even mutter a question before he sees the alpha opening the scanner up, its lid leaning against the wall. He yelps in surprise as the alpha's hands suddenly guide him forward, forcing him to bend. He gasps in surprise at the coolness of the scanner bed's glass, teasing gently against his hardened nubs. He adjusts his position, so his head isn't pressed against the lid but rather out to the side. 

"Move up. We need to make sure the scanner captures your nipples perfectly," Mr. Nikiforov orders, rapping on Yuuri's ass. 

Yuuri does, squirming as his hands clutch the edge of the copier for purchase. 

"Scanner options, one copy," Mr. Nikiforov mutters, manipulating the controls. "Oh, and in color." He hits the shiny green start button with a flourish. 

The scanner light flicks on, whirling. Running underneath the glass, it whines as it scans Yuuri's collarbone and then his flattened breasts. The line of green-blue light stops, reversing to its beginning position.

Yuuri hears the sound of something printing. 

Then silence. 

He does not dare to move, not even to wet his lips. Slick beads at his entrance. He can feel himself spreading his legs, anticipation killing him. 

Mr. Nikiforov picks up the printed page, turning the photocopy of Yuuri's chest in all its glory. It has perfectly captured the shiny piercing, the red nubs, the smushed curves of Yuuri's small breasts, and the frilly laces of the underbust corset. "I supposed the copier is working," Mr. Nikiforov muses. "But I usually print more than one copy. So hold still." It's the only warning before he hits the start button again, the picture falling to the floor. 

Yuuri gasps, head turning to watch Mr. Nikiforov striding around to press his clothed bulge against Yuuri's skirt. It’s hard. 

"Look down," orders Mr. Nikiforov. "Check to see if the remaining paper tray is working." Then he hits the start button again. 

The omega does, eyes unable to focus on the constant output of paper, of lewd images falling to the ground in a mess. He gasps as his skirt is flipped upwards, the alpha greedily cupping the curve of his ass. 

"Your best assets," the alpha purrs. "Deserves to be copied, too." A single finger plays the edge of the omega's entrance. "So needy here. Just needs to be filled." 

Yuuri cries at the sound of the zipper. He eagerly wiggles his hips, wanting so much to look back, to see the alpha. But he glances at the detailed pictures printing, spilling onto the floor. Completely missing the paper tray. 

Mr. Nikiforov inserts a single finger, slipping through the omega's wet entrance. "Did you play with yourself before you came here?" 

"Ah, ah, yes!" Yuuri admits, toes curling when the alpha slips in another finger. It's still not enough, not enough to make him feel  _ full.  _

"What a needy slut," Mr. Nikiforov murmurs. "I bet you want something much thicker than my fingers." 

Yuuri is drooling onto the edge of the copier, a hard tip teasing at his hole. He moans wantonly as Mr. Nikiforov slowly slides in, inch by inch. He eagerly clenches, as if he can keep Mr. Nikiforov inside him forever. 

"You take my cock so well," the alpha praises. 

"Ah, yes," Yuuri screams, his mouth falling open. His hole squeezes bare skin, realizing Mr. Nikiforov wears no condom. Without a knot, the chance of pregnancy is low, but he can't help but hope Mr. Nikiforov breeds him. He bites down on his lips before he can voice this thought. 

He wants him to. 

He  _ needs  _ him to. 

Then Mr. Nikiforov begins to move. The copier shakes underneath Yuuri, swaying with Mr. Nikiforov's thrusts. The omega's mouth opens in a loud moan, words barely forming. 

Mr. Nikiforov snaps his hips, skin slapping on skin as he hits the start button again. "Don't be shy. Let me hear what a slut you are." 

Yuuri bites down on his lips, unrelenting until Mr. Nikiforov pulls out completely, forces the omega's legs to spread even wider, and brings down a palm on Yuuri's sopping cunt. "Ah, Mr. Nikiforov!"

"Louder." He brings his palm down twice in quick succession, brief pain turning into molten heat. 

Yuuri has never felt more aware of the emptiness inside him. Wiggling his ass, he begs, "Mr. Nikiforov, please! I need you." 

"What's that?"  _ Slap. _

"Ah, I need you to fuck me!" Yuuri screams. 

"Fuck what?" Mr. Nikiforov prompts, bringing down his palm once again. 

"My slutty hole!" He answers, gasping and squirming uncontrollably. He moans at the gentle, massaging touch Mr. Nikiforov offers him in relief. 

"I'll accept that." His fingers part Yuuri’s folds as he lines up his cock once again. He sinks deep inside of Yuuri's cunt, thrusting to a quick rhythm as he grasps the omega's hips. He hits a button. The copier machine shakes, beeping as it starts a fresh page. 

Then the omega is coming, his mouth open in a cry as his fingers clench the copier tightly. His muscles milk every hot drop of seed the alpha offers, squeezing tightly around the length. He's panting, his eyes not even focused on much of anything anymore. 

"Fuck, you're so tight," Mr. Nikiforov mutters, slowly pulling out of Yuuri's cunt. "You clench me so hard that it's like you want me to stuff you forever." 

That doesn't sound like a bad idea. 

Yuuri yelps, arms instinctively grabbing Mr. Nikiforov's shoulders as the alpha forces him to stand. 

"Don't think I forgot," the alpha purrs, smirking. His arms easily lift Yuuri from the ground. "Now up you go." 

Yuuri shifts, adjusting himself on top of the scanner bed. He shivers, not because of a chill but because of the hungry way Mr. Nikiforov eyes him. He obeys Mr. Nikiforov's touch, his legs spreading to opposite sides of the copier. Slick and seed leaks onto the scanner, as his hole presses itself against the glass. 

Mr. Nikiforov hits the start button. 

Yuuri blushes, his cheeks perhaps a permanent shade of red. He doesn't know where to look, whether to stare at Mr. Nikiforov's ravenous eyes or to glance downwards, at the scanner light running itself under Yuuri's cunt and thighs as the copier begins to print a colorized page. 

Mr. Nikiforov seizes the freshly printed page, light blue eyes critically analyzing the copy. "Hmm. Something is missing." He casually discards the copy to the floor, ink-stained fingers lifting Yuuri's skirt to play with his hardened cock. Then the hand moves down. "You're so wet." 

Yuuri gasps, arching as two fingers easily dives deep inside his loose hole. The fingers sink in until only Mr. Nikiforov's knuckles press against Yuuri's folds. 

The scanner light hums, scanning once again. 

The alpha smiles serenely as a page is printed once again. He removes his hand once the scanner light reverses its path, returning to its starting point. He catches the printing page before it can fall to the floor like all the other copies. He holds it up, perfectly so. 

"It's really good, don't you think? Your cunt. In its natural state. Unfortunately, not stuffed with cock, but it will take anything it can get." 

Yuuri can see every lewd detail, the way his folds are parted around Mr. Nikiforov's fingers, the way slick and seed stain the scanner glass. His thighs tremble as he helps himself off the copier, the corner of his eyes watching Mr. Nikiforov's back. 

He can still hear Mr. Nikiforov's words as the alpha walks away with the colorized photocopy in his hand. "I think this deserves to be framed." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never seen a copier print a colorized copy but okay. *shrugs*


	3. Multifunctional Robot Vacuum Cleaners

Mr. Nikiforov really enjoys seeing Yuuri wear an underbust corset, the shortest skirt he owns, the cap, and the high heels. He's been requested to wear all of this sans anything underneath. It feels naughty as he drives through busy traffic with merely an overcoat protecting his modesty and the AC on high. 

The alpha receives him in his home. "Right on time," he says, flashing a grin. He purrs, "You are an excellent worker." 

"Thank you, Mr. Nikiforov," Yuuri replies, flushing as he pulls off his overcoat. Cold conditioned air brushes against his nipples, teasingly so. "Do you have any special tasks for me today?" 

"I do. The house looks quite amazing, don't you agree?" 

The omega nods. It does. 

"I've determined that it would be better if you personally attend to me." 

Yuuri's heart skips a beat. "Yes?" He doesn't know what exactly is on Mr. Nikiforov's mind, but he has a good idea and a good feeling about this. 

Mr. Nikiforov does not explain what he says. He merely smiles and orders, "I've ordered a machine that requires extensive installation. It’s in the supply room." 

"Yes, Mr. Nikiforov." Yuuri leads the alpha upstairs, wondering if he’ll be finding a fucking machine needing installation. He finds the supply room easily, the same one they fucked in last week, where Mr. Nikiforov bended him over the copier and did many inappropriate things on top of the copier. He flushes, trying not to look at the machine too closely. He can't help but notice that the paper tray is still broken. 

Mr. Nikiforov gestures to a packaged box that has been opened at some point. "I have ordered a nice but expensive 3D printer. I will need your help in installing it and in testing its quality." 

"Yes, Mr. Nikiforov," Yuuri obediently says, nodding as his heart skips a beat at the thought of testing its quality and what that entails. "Did you find the instructions?" 

"Nope," the alpha answers cheerfully. A toe presses against the box. "I believe you will have to look for it." He winks. 

The omega knows exactly what to do. Heels clack against the floor, and he glances into the open box, glancing for a slip of paper or perhaps a small booklet. The box is about the size of a dishwasher, and the parts of the printer appeared to require minor assembly. It's not anything like an IKEA furniture. He bends over, hands shuffling through the plastic sheets and the white styrofoam blocks. 

He feels Mr. Nikiforov cups the curve of Yuuri's ass. His mind goes deliciously blank as the alpha traces along the curve and finds his wet folds with bare fingers, teasing along the edges. 

“Mr. Nikiforov!” 

"You're so wet," he murmurs. "And we haven't even started yet." He leaves Yuuri bereft and hungry as he pulls away, his fingers tapping his lips in thought. "I believe the printer would look the best in front of the photos here. On the floor until I can find a suitable table." 

"Yes, Mr. Nikiforov," Yuuri confirms, hand shaking as he pulls out the instruction booklet. His fingers find the installation instructions, torso arching as Mr. Nikiforov returns to suddenly press an impressive, hot bulge against Yuuri's skirt-clad ass, the heat searing. "Ah, Mr. Nikiforov!" 

The alpha twists the omega's nipple, the one without a piercing. Another hand curves around Yuuri's hip bone. Nose pressed against the curve of Yuuri's neck, he whispers, "Why don't you set up the printer? I will be in my office setting up the software. Come over when you're done." Then he withdraws himself from the omega, leaving Yuuri in a panting mess once again. 

It takes a long moment for Yuuri to gather his wits.

Judging from the instructions, it's clear to the omega that Mr. Nikiforov expects him to finish in thirty or so minutes. The steps aren't too complex. There simply are a lot of intricate parts to organize. There's a sticky note at the bottom of the page from Mr. Nikiforov, telling him to load up the black block of silicon. 

Yuuri is pleased he manages to switch the printer on in twenty minutes after some heavy lifting. Obeying Mr. Nikiforov's instructions, he inserts the block of silicon into the printer, shivering and wondering at the thought of Mr. Nikiforov's next printing job. 

He brushes his skirt, wasting a few seconds. He then straightens himself, adjusting the maid cap on his head. With delicate steps, he makes his way into the alpha's office. He knocks on the door, pausing in the open doorway. "Mr. Nikiforov?" 

"I'm still working on the dimensions for the first print job, but I've gotten the computer connected to the printer. Well done on the printer installation,” Mr. Nikiforov compliments, his lips smiling in approval. He scoots the office chair a bit back, rising from the desk. “Now, about your other tasks.” 

“Mr. Nikiforov?”

“Yes?” 

"Let's go to the garage." Mr. Nikiforov passes by Yuuri, his scent so tantalizing that the omega stands still a second too long. 

The omega has never been into the garage. It's one of the rooms that remained out-of-bounds, as stated in Mr. Nikiforov's answers to the questionnaire. He peers into the garage, his heels clicking across the concrete. 

It's surprisingly clean. Yuuri thought it might have been filled with dust and oil streaks. But no. Three cars are parked indoors. The omega can't help but smile slightly at the shiny pink convertible. The other two cars are not as flashy in comparison. One is a black BMW and the other a gleaming white Porsche, both sedans. It's clear that Mr. Nikiforov has a type. 

The omega awaits the alpha's instructions, watching the silver-haired man open a cabinet and pull out a. . . 

Yuuri narrows his eyes, unable to help himself from speaking out in astonishment. "Is that a robot? A robot vacuum cleaner?" 

"Robots, yes," Mr. Nikiforov confirms. He hands a circular robot vacuum cleaner to Yuuri, setting down two other robots on the garage floor. "One is for the windows, and the other is for the stairs. Unfortunately, I don't have a robot that can dust bookshelves and such. The robot vacuum cleaner and the window cleaner will need assistance with the stairs." 

Yuuri doesn't know what to say as he glances down at this robot in his arms. He blurts out, "You had these things and you were paying me to clean anyway?" He flushes, immediately wishing he can take back his words. 

"Well, if you want to attend to me while keeping the rest of the house clean, I can put these away." A knowing pause as Mr. Nikiforov switches the two housekeeping robots on. "But I believe you will need all the time you can get to personally attend to me." 

The omega nods. “Yes, Mr. Nikiforov.” 

The alpha beams. “Have you ever seen one of these robots before?”

Yuuri rearranges the robot vacuum cleaner in his arms, examining the company logo in the center. A Puma vacuum. When he was still working at the adult housekeeping agency, some of the clients had the Puma robot vacuum cleaners in their closets. It only reminded Yuuri of his true purpose as eye candy. Judging by the slight wear and tear around the edges, Mr. Nikiforov has possessed the Puma for quite some time. Quite dutifully, he informs Mr. Nikiforov, “The Puma. Version V. The fifth. It’s considered the best in its smart robot class. Superior to the Roomba. Released last year.” 

Mr. Nikiforov’s smile widens. “You know your robots very well.” He brushes around the two robots wheeling their way towards their respective tasks. 

Yuuri doesn’t know how to explain that his class occasionally reprograms robots such as these for Fight Club. Robot cleaners are great. They come pre-assembled with a software that only needs to be rewritten. 

“Start the cleaner in the guest bedroom and then come back to the office,” Mr. Nikiforov orders, quickly walking up the stairs. 

In his five-inch heels, the omega slowly follows him up the stairs. He’s briefly surprised that Mr. Nikiforov did not insist on him walking up first. The alpha has never denied himself a free view of Yuuri’s bottom. He splits away from Mr. Nikiforov for the guest bedroom. 

Yuuri has never thought of owning a Puma. It's too expensive. The earlier models are cheaper, starting off at a hundred and fifty dollars. But they do the job not as well as the newer, sleeker models. This version cost three hundred, which is three hundred dollars Yuuri will never spend. The apartment he shares with Phichit is small enough to clean by hand. 

He might consider spending three hundred if he has a house as big as Mr. Nikiforov's. 

A brief touch of the power button is enough for the robot vacuum cleaner to begin its program. Mr. Nikiforov must have filled it with cleaner liquid and water beforehand, because it started off without giving an error notification. Mr. Nikiforov is planning something, and at this warm, surprising thought, Yuuri's heart skips a beat. He can't wait to see what Mr. Nikiforov has in mind. 

Yuuri stands long enough to watch the robot to vacuum the first five feet before briskly walking back to the alpha's office. 

Victor types away at his computer. He stops when he notices Yuuri standing awkwardly in the doorway. "Come in. Let me tell you how you will be personally attending to me today." 

The omega slowly steps in, feeling a great breath being exhaled, waiting for release. "Yes, Mr. Nikiforov?" 

"I need you to clean something under the desk." The alpha pushes the chair back, gesturing. "Would you please kneel?" 

The omega nearly wants to roll his eyes. He was hoping for something more original than just blowing Mr. Nikiforov under the table. He thought Mr. Nikiforov was perhaps a little more imaginative and creative. Nonetheless, he sinks below the desk, turning so he can still look at Mr. Nikiforov. 

"Is there enough space?" 

"It's not that bad." His knees are going to kill him later with all the weight, and even as he relaxes on his own legs tucked underneath his bottom, he must keep his neck bent to prevent his head from slamming against the bottom of the desk. 

Mr. Nikiforov pulls at a drawer, retrieving a pair of purple scissors. Pushing away his office chair, he squats down to smile at the omega. 

This close, Yuuri can feel the very hot breath of the other man, electrifying and thrilling. He stiffens at the cold touch of the scissors against his bare thigh. "Mr. Nikiforov?" 

The alpha smiles even broader. "Relax." He takes a hold of Yuuri's skirt and begins to snip, cutting the fabric upwards towards the elastic band. 

"Mr. Nikiforov! This is the only skirt of this length I have," Yuuri protests, hands grabbing the desk as the scissors easily cut through the band. He shivers as the fabric is pulled away and tossed to the side. His cock rises proudly, leaking under the heat of Mr. Nikiforov's inspection. 

"No worries," he replies cheerfully, returning the scissors. "You won't be needing it next time." 

Yuuri's heart skips a beat. So is Mr. Nikiforov actually planning something out? But before he can ask, he gasps in surprise at the alpha's molten touch on his thighs. 

"Spread," he orders. 

And Yuuri does, never one to deny Mr. Nikiforov of a request. His legs spread far enough that his bare cunt and ass presses itself against the cool floorboards. 

The alpha clicks his tongue. "I don't want your cunt leaving wet spots on the floor. Lift yourself up but keep your legs apart." 

It's a hard position to maintain, especially with his head sticking out of the desk and his leg muscles working overtime to keep himself lifted. Eyes pleading, Yuuri begs, "Can I take my shoes off?" 

The alpha considers. Then he nods. "Throw them over there." He gestures to the remains of Yuuri's skirt. 

The omega doesn't dare look at the gifted horse in the mouth. Without the high heels impeding, the balls of his feet help with his weight, relieving his thigh muscles. He resumes the position Mr. Nikiforov left him in, his head bowed. 

The alpha sits back down in his chair. Unzipping his pants to reveal the fact he has gone commando, he pulls out his cock and strokes it. He spreads his legs, shuffling forward until the length is mere inches away from Yuuri's face. 

It's the first time Yuuri has ever seen it. It's jutting straight at the omega's face, leaking precum. Beautiful with prominent veins and a hint of a knot at the base. A musky scent hangs in the air, and Yuuri longs to move closer, inhale directly from the pubic hair. The urge to take the member into his mouth, but he has self-control. He awaits further orders. 

"I need you to clean this with your mouth," he orders. "Until I say otherwise. Maintain your position. Don't use your hands." 

"Yes, Mr. Nikiforov." Yuuri presses his hands against the floor, eagerly leaning forward to take the alpha's dick into his mouth. He can't help but moan at the salty taste of precum, his own cunt clenching around nothing but air. He wants some stimulation, but he also needs his hands to help alleviate the weight on his feet and thighs. He bobbles his head, mouth parting wide as he breathes in through his nose. 

Mr. Nikiforov removes his hand, returning to type at his computer. 

Yuuri has never taken a real dick down his throat. However, he is the university's beer bong champ for four years straight with a damn good reason. Lots of practice with sucking dildos has never paid off so well. He angles his mouth correctly, slowly forcing inches between his lips. His eyes close with the heavy weight of Mr. Nikiforov on his tongue, relishing the brief burn in Yuuri's throat. He's careful with his teeth, uncertain if Mr. Nikiforov would appreciate feeling them. 

His nose brushes against Mr. Nikiforov's hairs, and he inhales the musky scent. He slowly pulls back, his mouth drooling saliva. His world narrows down to this very moment, growing smaller and smaller until all he knows is the weight casually resting on his tongue and the constant sound of Mr. Nikiforov's keyboard. His mouth doesn't feel the same, and he's not even sure if he can even talk after this. But he keeps Mr. Nikiforov in his mouth, sucking at the bulbous head. 

Four years of playing beer bong with college students has never warned him of how wanting his hole becomes while sucking Mr. Nikiforov’s dick, of how much he wishes for something to fill him from the other end. Leaning forward, Yuuri stretches his mouth open, inch by inch reentering his throat. He bobbles slowly, testing the waters and trying to calculate how far he can maneuver without banging his head against the desk. Growing in confidence, his pace quickens as he lewdly slurps around the growing member. 

"You're doing so well," Mr. Nikiforov says quietly, his voice so soft that Yuuri almost felt as if he imagined it. 

But Yuuri's eyes are locked upon the growing bulge at the base of Mr. Nikiforov's cock. The knot. He drools, remembering so clearly that Mr. Nikiforov denied him this last week. Doubt seizes him. Can he take it in? Mr. Nikiforov is already so big even without a knot stretching Yuuri's mouth. 

But Yuuri doesn't have another moment to think before his lips close around the growing knot, locking and stretching his jaw around the bulge. His eyes quickly tear up as hot semen shoots down his throat. He's utterly wrecked and dripping slick to the floor. 

He can do nothing but freeze, warming Mr. Nikiforov's knot for however long it remains. Tears slip from his eyes as his head relaxes against the alpha's thighs. He relaxes slightly even as his cunt quivers desperately around nothing, unable to get any sort of stimulation. His eyelids fall shut. 

"I'm so impressed," the alpha purrs, a touch out of breath. A gentle hand combs through the back of Yuuri's head. "I don't think I've ever seen a slut take a knot so well." 

The praise sinks in, warming Yuuri. Though he can't purr, he does reach up with one hand to squeeze Mr. Nikiforov's thigh, his own legs shaking with weariness. 

A warm hand covers Yuuri's. 

"I can smell you, you know," Mr. Nikiforov tells him. "Poor thing. Need to come, don't you?" 

Yuuri can't say anything. 

"I'm about to print my first 3D project. Afterwards, let's see if we can take care of you." The alpha returns to the keyboard and computer, typing and clicking away with one hand. 

The omega falls into a haze. He can barely understand much of the world. Sucking the knot carefully, he slowly breathes through his nose. Mr. Nikiforov's hand is still on top of his. The warmth and haze is nice. 

"And printing." 

A sudden touch at Yuuri's foot tickles the omega. He opens his eyes suddenly, but with the knot still locked in his mouth, he can't desperately turn to look at what touched him. A cold smooth plastic thing has settled against Yuuri's foot. 

He clutches at Mr. Nikiforov, eyes pleading. He wants to ask, he wants to know what is touching his foot, but he can't do any of that at all. 

Mr. Nikiforov glances down at the omega, cocking his head. "Are you getting tired? Go ahead and relax." 

Yuuri whimpers. He doesn't know what plastic thing has suddenly appeared by his foot. 

The alpha smiles, his eyes gleaming darkly. "Relax your legs. Do it." 

And at this command, Yuuri's thighs collapse and his feet relaxes. Instead of pressing against the floor as he expected, his cunt sits on some sort of smooth plastic. He's not certain what it is, but the omega whines, his sounds muffled. The machine underneath him crudely vibrates, providing much needed stimulation to his cunt. 

"It seems the robot vacuum cleaner really wants to clean the spot you left behind on the floor." With a few strokes of Mr. Nikiforov's keys, the robot increases its vibrations. 

It's not like a vibrator, where the pulses are fixated and emitting from a single point. The machine furiously works, the mechanical noises somehow so lewd. 

Yuuri will never look at a robot vacuum cleaner the same way. His fingers desperately grips Mr. Nikiforov's thighs, nails digging into the expensive fabric of his pants. 

Then he comes, tears dripping from his eyes. And throughout it all, Mr. Nikiforov's hand remains steady on top of his own. 

The robot beeps and stops. 

It feels like hours but probably was ten minutes when the knot shrinks and Mr. Nikiforov gently pulls his cock out of Yuuri's mouth. He tucks himself back in, zipping up and buttoning his pants. 

Yuuri's jaw aches, and he feels as if his mouth doesn't belong to him anymore. His mouth doesn't feel normal being closed after having a cock inside him and his throat for so long. 

"Oh, zolotse," Mr. Nikiforov purrs. "I have to get my little project from the printer. Come up, sit in my chair." The alpha grips the boneless omega, seating him in the swiveling chair. 

It even hurts to close his legs. Everything is sore, as if Yuuri has decided to practice pole dancing for five hours without stretching beforehand. It's embarrassing to look at himself, at the dripping flaccid cock to the clear slick gleaming on his inner thighs. Even as he wears only the underbust corset, Yuuri feels as if he's naked under the alpha's gaze. 

Mr. Nikiforov stops him before he can fully close his legs. "No, keep them open. I need your cunt to test my printing job." 

Yuuri can't even sit straight, much less comprehend Mr. Nikiforov's words. 

Kneeling down, the alpha reaches underneath the desk and lifts the robot vacuum cleaner, frowning as he peers closely to the pathetic beeps it whimpers. He sets it back to the floor, nudging it with his foot. There is clear slick wet all over the company logo, the picture of a cougar’s face. The robot furiously vibrates, the wheels turning but unable to move an inch. “Must be a motor problem,” the alpha says, shrugging. 

Yuuri blushes. It’s his weight. They’re not meant to be sat on. 

Mr. Nikiforov tucks the cleaner under his arm and leaves his office briefly. The alpha returns with something black and silicon in his hands. He’s drying it with a paper towel, and with a wicked gleam in his eye, he holds it right in front of Yuuri’s face. “Do you like it?”

Only strangled noises come out of the omega’s mouth. His throat is fucked. Literally. 

Mr. Nikiforov is not discouraged by the lack of an answer from Yuuri. He bends down and uses the silicon plug to gather Yuuri’s slick. Then without ceremony, he inserts the toy into the omega’s sopping pink cunt. Only the flared base remains visible. 

The omega gasps, his throat aching with the very sound. The plug is thick but not as thick as Mr. Nikiforov’s cock. But he likes how it stretches his hole, so he spreads his legs wider so Mr. Nikiforov can see it more clearly, displaying himself like a wanton whore. 

“I think I’m going to keep that printer.” 


	4. An Apron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Waffle!

A large nondescript brown box with Yuuri's name ends up at the main office. It's too large to fit into the mailbox. Yuuri can feel himself warm as he walks up the stairs and wonders what could be in the incredibly light box. It's addressed to him, his name neatly typed and printed. The return address is to some sort of clothing company, judging by the name. 

Phichit smiles knowingly as he raises a spoonful of cereal and milk to his mouth. He doesn't have to say a word for Yuuri to know precisely where the other man's thoughts are. 

"It's not sex toys!" Yuuri hisses, kicking open his door with a little more force than necessary. "It's just a package from home!" 

"Uh, huh," Phichit teases. "Totally." He wags his spoon at the omega. 

Phichit has accidentally seen the aftermath of drunk Yuuri, who decided to buy nice vibrators and a large dildo Yuuri wouldn't use without an entire bottle of lube from a reputable online store. He's honestly relieved he didn't accidentally buy an expensive sex toy he couldn't afford. 

When he is safely in his room, he makes sure to close the door behind him. Anticipation sinks into his stomach. It is not something from his parents. They would have written Yuuri's address on the shipping label. Is this something drunk Yuuri bought months ago and now the supplier has finally decided to ship the order? Yuuri mentally swears to not drink. Maybe for the rest of his life. He should have learned from his mistakes. His many mistakes. 

He breaks open the box with his key. The tape gives way, and he is met with rose pink tissue paper. He frowns, resolving to check his credit card statement. He didn't notice any unusual purchases last week, but maybe he bought something in his sleep. His fingers quickly push aside the tissue paper, and he finds a skimpy white piece of fabric nestled within. There's no card or a slip of paper for a confirmation of his order. 

Yuuri sits on his bed, staring at the small box on the floor. A simple piece of clothes? What is the purpose of this? He lifts the white scrap of fabric. It's thin, but it's not completely see-through. Four strands of white straps confuse him. It looks odd, but a sense of recognition slowly dawns upon him. It's a skimpy sexy apron, judging by the white laces and the slight dip at the top to expose the cleavage of ample breasts. Except Yuuri doesn't really have breasts, being a male omega. 

He peers in the box. There's a thin white string also included. He doesn't know the purpose of that. It can't be a g-string. 

He frowns, grabbing his phone. He really must check to see. . . 

Oh. A text from Mr. Nikiforov. 

Yuuri can't help the shiver of delight dancing across his spine as he taps the notification. Mr. Nikiforov doesn't always text as much as Phichit does, but the omega cherishes every single one even as a small part of him hisses and reminds him that his job is only temporary. Mr. Nikiforov does not need him forever. One day, he may grow bored like what other clients have felt. 

Of course, unlike Mr. Nikiforov, no other client had the pleasure of seeing Yuuri naked. There's something about Mr. Nikiforov that Yuuri just wants to hold and keep forever. The omega shoves that thought down. It's not important. 

The text loads. 

_ Did you receive the package?  _

Yuuri quickly texts back, briefly checking the timestamp. Mr. Nikiforov texted him an hour ago, and he quietly curses himself for not seeing it right away. His fingers type.  _ Just picked it up now.  _

_ Wear it tomorrow. Nothing else.  _

_ Yes, Mr. Nikiforov.  _ Then he frowns, wondering if he should have asked for instructions or perhaps a photograph of a model wearing this apron. It would help him figure out how the straps are supposed to be tied. 

No matter. He has Google for answers, and he can experiment with it. 

It takes seven tries and eight minutes of Googling to get it right. The string, not attached to the apron, is the trickiest part. He wasn't able to find the exact design of the apron on the internet, but he has seen several models with their intricate straps and ties. He has no desire to ask Phichit for help, so he has to figure it out by himself. The two ties at the top are much longer, perhaps to be adjustable. The two strands emerging from just below the middle of the apron are meant to be tied together around his waist. 

It's easy to put it on when Yuuri works backwards. Actually backwards. He strips naked and glances at the mirror to get the top ties around his neck. It's difficult to judge where the apron should fall, but he figures he should have at least his nipple piercing covered. It would be uncomfortable to have it snag onto the strands or the laces at the top of the apron. Then he flips the apron around, so it would be in the front. 

The next two strands of lace are easy. They are pulled tight and then knotted. 

It's the puzzle of the white string, loose and thin, that has him stumped. Internet is no help, and he can't exactly type in this problem in Wolfram Alpha. He tries tying it on various places of his apron until he realizes it's meant to be a parody of a collar. 

Yuuri, once he has it successfully on, turns from side to side to examine critically from multiple angles. He doesn't look half bad, and if he puts on his heels to match, he will be catching Mr. Nikiforov's eye. He turns in the mirror. 

The tied knot and loose ends in the back falls right over the crack of Yuuri's exposed butt. He can see why Mr. Nikiforov bought this apron for him. He taps his chin thoughtfully. 

Should he still wear the maid's cap? 

Well. Mr. Nikiforov did order  _ Nothing else,  _ so Yuuri supposes not. He wonders what tomorrow will bring as he slips off into an easy sleep. 

* * *

The very next morning, Yuuri arrives on time at the lovely house on Aspen Avenue. He knocks on the door, and Mr. Nikiforov opens the door as always. Yuuri can't help the sudden beats of his heart, and he can't help but inhale the deep notes of Mr. Nikiforov's scent, very alpha and possessive. Territorial. If Yuuri doesn't know any better, he might have thought Victor was in rut. 

When the door closes, Mr. Nikiforov orders, "Show me. Now." 

Yuuri does, his every movement careful and slow as he unbuttons his overcoat and leaves it on the coat hanger, revealing the apron and the faux collar on his neck. He's about to walk forward when Mr. Nikiforov glances down at his shoes. Yuuri wordlessly slips them off, leaving the white heels neatly by the door. 

"I love your heels," Mr. Nikiforov says, smiling once they're off his feet. "But I think it will be better for you to go without them today." The alpha does not move to the stairs as Yuuri expected. Instead, he makes a beeline for the gym. 

Yuuri finally notices Mr. Nikiforov's outfit. He wears gym shorts and a red sports jacket. He can't quite figure out Mr. Nikiforov's plan, but he shivers under the weight of anticipation. The cool air brushes against his nipples, hardening them. The lacy white apron stretches over him. The omega feels sensitive, and they've barely started yet. 

"Have you been to a gym before? Not mine. But somewhere else? Like a membership club or a university's gym?" 

"Yes. My apartment has a gym." He can remember all the times Phichit dragged him downstairs to the gym to leer at the boys with their ridiculous tank tops. More muscles than brains, Yuuri can swear. Phichit can be included at times. 

Mr. Nikiforov props open the door. "Have you ever spotted someone?" 

"Yes," Yuuri confirms. He has learned how to spot thanks to all the alphas at the gym who strangely keep on asking him for help in spotting them. 

"Good." Mr. Nikiforov picks up a water bottle from the bench and tosses it to Yuuri. "I need you to hold this." 

The omega catches it, barely. He nearly drops it, and his cheeks flush. He hesitates and then asks, "Do you need any other assistance?" He can't help but drink in as Mr. Nikiforov unzips his jacket and drapes it over the dumbbell stand. He wears a simple black v-neck underneath. 

He's so thirsty. 

"No," Mr. Nikiforov replies, setting weights on a barbell. Then he lays down on the bench. "I only need you to open the bottle and spot me." 

He doesn't know why Mr. Nikiforov needs help, but he does what the alpha asks. He stands at the alpha's head, his fingers opening the bottle for he has little else to do. He removes the snap-on cap and sets it aside on the dumbbell stand. The bottle is small, half as thin as a soda can with an anti-splash non-spill cap. Yuuri once designed and printed one back in undergrad. 

The omega helps him spot for minutes, his concentration disappearing somewhere into ogling all the fine lines of the alpha. He would do anything just to sit on the alpha's lap and ride him while he bench presses barbells. Yuuri nearly takes a sip out of Mr. Nikiforov's bottle, out of sheer desperation. He's not fit for this. He can't possibly spot Mr. Nikiforov at all without risking the other man's life. 

It's perhaps ten or twenty or fifty minutes later when Mr. Nikiforov sets the barbell on the rack, sweat dripping down his neck. He slowly sits up. "Water please?" 

Despite being prepared, Yuuri still fumbles nervously with the bottle as he steps around the bench to raise the bottle to Mr. Nikiforov's lips. He watches the alpha's throat, the pale and flawless lines shifting slightly as he drinks. 

Then Mr. Nikiforov pushes the bottle away. "I would prefer you didn't move from your spot." 

"Ah," Yuuri says, flushing. "I'm sorry, Mr. Nikiforov." 

"No, it's my fault. I need to give you the tools to help you, don't I?" He stands up, bending over to pull out a drawer in the little table tucked in the corner. He picks up a single condom, sealed with a wrapper. "Let me help you." 

Yuuri can only watch, wide-eyed, as Mr. Nikiforov plucks the bottle out of the omega's hands. He watches, enraptured, as the alpha easily opens the condom and slides it over the water bottle from the bottom end. He rolls it until the condom provides a decent cover over the plastic bottle. It’s a perfect fit for the bottle. 

Oh. It's— 

The omega can't even squeak when the alpha erases the distance between them. He's panting, leaning against the wall as he shivers under the hot breaths of the alpha. 

"Turn around and stick out your ass," Mr. Nikiforov commands, the water bottle in his hands. 

He can't believe he's indulging Mr. Nikiforov. He turns, hands splayed as his legs part. He leans, canting his butt up. The apron hangs loosely, swaying in front of him. 

Mr. Nikiforov's fingers circle Yuuri's cunt, finding it wet and dripping with slick. Two fingers dive in, stretching him out. Then another, thrusting in and out to prepare him for the stretch. "You're so loose," Mr. Nikiforov murmurs. He withdraws, fingers opening Yuuri's hole as the bottle slowly presses in. 

Yuuri whimpers, forcing himself to relax. He has once tried a hairbrush, but this is something different. This is something on the strange edge of the forbidden and unusual. The water bottle stretches him as it presses in. It's not large, not as big or richly fulfilling as Mr. Nikiforov's dick. 

"There you are," the alpha purrs, rubbing Yuuri's ass. "You got the most important part of the bottle in. Now you don't have to move a single step to help me." A pause as he turns Yuuri around. His eyes meet Yuuri's, dilated in pure excitement. "Keep the bottle in." 

Yuuri squirms, clenching around the bottle. It's smooth, cool with water swishing, and far thinner than he expects. It takes everything he has to stop it from sliding out. He straightens, legs clamping. It helps a little. 

"Huh?" Yuuri jolts. He's been so focused on the bottle that he hasn't been paying attention to the most important thing. 

Placing the barbell on the rack, Mr. Nikiforov repeats him, a smirk playing on his lips. "Water please." 

The omega sags in relief. His hands reach towards the bottle. 

"No. Keep it in." 

It takes maneuvering and concentration for Yuuri to angle the bottle correctly at Mr. Nikiforov's mouth. His thighs strain under the effort as the alpha sucks, dislodging the bottle. He doesn't want to sit on Mr. Nikiforov and accidentally crush him, but he might with the way his legs desperately shake. 

The bottle slips out, condom and all. It lands on the floor and rolls away, shiny with slick. 

Yuuri reddens. "I'm sorry, Mr. Nikiforov!" 

"No matter," he says, hands reaching out to pull Yuuri down on his face. "I would rather drink from your cunt." 

The omega gasps, fingers closing on the barbell for balance. He arches when Mr. Nikiforov parts his hole and he tongues deep inside Yuuri. Thoughts and worries about Mr. Nikiforov suffocating flies out of the window. The more weight Yuuri gives in, the happier Mr. Nikiforov seems even while crushed. 

With a grip on Yuuri's thigh and another stroking Yuuri's hardened cock, Mr. Nikiforov presses his mouth against the omega like a man starved. He pulls Yuuri closer, as if unable to get enough. He curates the pressure growing inside of Yuuri, coaxing it as his hand tightens around Yuuri's length. 

Yuuri bows, shaking under his release. A spurt has landed over Mr. Nikiforov's shirt, slick painting over Mr. Nikiforov's face, some dripping down his chin and throat. He blushes. "Do you need help cleaning, Mr. Nikiforov?" 

Mr. Nikiforov releases Yuuri's thigh. His words are muffled from underneath Yuuri. "No, I still need help with exercising." 

He does? 

A hand reaches down and pats the alpha's upper thigh. 

Oh. 

Yuuri's legs shake as he slowly stands up again. He moves around and straddles Mr. Nikiforov's lap. Slick gathers on his shorts, soft and silky against his cunt. He can't help himself as he grinds against Mr. Nikiforov, the tiny spark of pleasure delightful. 

"Take my cock out and warm it." His voice is hoarse. 

Yuuri rises slightly to pull the alpha's shorts down. He's unsurprised to find a lack of underwear. Angling the tip to his hole, he slowly sinks down, his mouth open in a wordless gasp as it stretches him the way it's supposed to. Not like how the water bottle did. He stops himself before he rides Mr. Nikiforov and disobeys his order. 

"You're so loose," muses Mr. Nikiforov, returning to his bench presses. "Something we need to work on next time." 


End file.
